


ground cover me, and wind your ashes take

by deserts



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-03-13 11:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13569615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deserts/pseuds/deserts
Summary: There are a few things York will admit to believing in; that a birthday isn't a proper birthday without cake, people are generally good, (Santa, until he was nine, and his older cousin told him the truth), and that Agent Carolina cannot possibly be dead.The remaining pieces of Project Freelancer try to pick themselves back up, and learn the true meaning of a Pyrrhic victory (but maybe not).





	1. December

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote most of this about two years ago, but watching the series again rekindled my love so i'm actually going to try to finish it, this time! tags and warnings will probably be subject to change in the future.  
> title comes from a poem, [A Winter Morning](https://static.poetryfoundation.org/jstor/i20594167/pages/24.png), by Dick Allen (edit: original link kept breaking, all i have is this image i am so sorry)
> 
>  
> 
> *
> 
> It's December, and this year they won't remember to celebrate Christmas. AI integration is a lot harder than York thought it would be.

There are a few things York will admit to believing in; that a birthday isn’t a proper birthday without cake, people are generally good, (Santa, until he was nine, and his older cousin told him the truth), and that Agent Carolina cannot possibly be dead.

 -

“It’s not so bad,” he tells himself, sitting on the balcony with one leg hooked around the old bars, the other dangling over the edge. Late at night, he can see the sparkling lights of downtown Nairobi from their dilapidated apartment building. “Things could be worse.” He’s not sure he believes that.

  
_“You do not,”_ Delta tells him.

“Yeah” he says, unnecessarily.

“Talking to yourself?” calls a new voice, and he jumps before he can steel himself against it. He hadn’t been expecting anyone else. Tipping his head back, North stands in the doorway, arms folded and shoulder tucked into the frame.

“Delta,” he says.

“Of course.” North offers a smile. It’s weak, tired.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks kindly, knows the answer.

“Theta,” North yawns, shrugging.

“Of course,” York and Delta say. They scratch at an eyebrow, turn back to the view.

North settles down beside him a moment later, legs bowed in so their thighs press together.

“South?” York asks.

“Left for work three hours ago.”

 _“Currently 3:34 local time,”_   Delta informs him.

“Didn’t even say goodbye,” York snorts. “Wash?”

“Sleeping,” North and Delta say.

York knows. He would have heard otherwise. A breeze picks up, light and warm, but he shoves his hands stubbornly in the pocket of his sweater, curls his fingers into fists. It’s supposed to be winter, he thinks. Delta thinks he’s being over-dramatic about it. Connie liked winter, he remembers.

“You think they’re out there?” He’s not sure why he says it. He’s not sure who to. Delta answers in statistics, lines of code across his left eye.

“Who?” North asks. Then says, “Maybe.” Theta adds, “Unlikely.”

York thinks about the way North used to sink against him after a long mission, where even now it seems like their legs touching is too much. He notes the lines of tension across broad shoulders and how his usually twitchy, ever moving hands sit still in his lap.

Frayed wires, York thinks.

 _Misaligned,_ Delta says.

Neither think “incompatible.”

“It’s hard to sleep here,” North and Theta say. Admit. It’s soft, barely air on the wind, and York can’t help the way his fingers start creeping towards him. He’s not sure what it is, exactly, about the four of them. He takes North’s hand, strong and calloused and freezing cold, and Delta thinks, symmetry.

Theta smiles out the right side of North’s mouth.

Delta thinks about puzzle pieces. York wonders at having a conversation with two bodies and four participants.

None of them bring up what’s bothering them, not really. If Theta says something to North, he doesn’t relay it back. Conversation is light. York tries to point out constellations but it’s been a long time since he’s seen these stars, he can’t even remember. North still laughs, small and breathy and perhaps a little forced, but he nods along. North and South were colony kids, Delta remembers. Not everyone learned to ride a bicycle on Mars, York. He laughs. North laughs. They’re only a little sad.

York reckons no, it can’t possibly be so bad. They’re not ready to talk about things yet, he gets that. Delta doesn’t, really, but he doesn’t push it, and the quiet between them is one that’s only really achieved on those nights where Wash’s last glass of water is laced with pain killers and sleeping tablets.

Theta falls asleep first, and North follows shortly after, sagging down against York’s shoulder like he couldn’t belong anywhere else. York doesn’t mind. Delta thinks it’s bad for his back (but he doesn’t mind, either).

They stay like that for awhile. It’s nice, actually. North’s warm against him, arms folded up in a defensive posture that he’s taken to since their escape. Even upright, North sleeps like he’s trying to become smaller, hunches in on himself and tucking his nose into York’s shoulder. It reminds him of too many pelican rides.

“Do you think they’re out there, D?” He whispers. He doesn’t have to.

 _“I do not know, York,”_   is his only response, and York thinks he sounds guilty.

“They’re out there,” he decides. “They are.”

York is watching the sun rise over the slums when he sees familiar blonde hair trudging up the path towards their building. It’s hard to miss her, really. Maybe they should think about getting hair dye. She sticks out like a sore thumb among the muddy roads and tin roofs.

He lets out a sharp whistle, mindful of the way North groans, flops from his shoulder to his lap.

South’s head snaps up, hand going automatically to her side, but she relaxes when she realizes it’s just him. Gives a faint wave.

 

He hears her banging around inside for a moment before she finds him on the balcony, and he’s familiar with the way he tips his head back to grin at her. She’s the exact mirror of North, though considerably less amused.

“You haven’t slept yet.” It’s not a question.

“No,” he says cheerfully.

There is something comfortingly condescending about the pull of her mouth, but it’s an illusion ruined when she sighs, shoulders falling too far. “Okay. Sure.”

“How was work?” he asks, because that tired slump isn’t befitting of someone so strong.

“Fine,” she says. Shrugs. “Fine. It was work. Got a new shipment from Seongnam, almost shit my pants when I saw the UNSC logo.” She picks idly at the door frame, white paint yellowing with age, wood rotting down to the core.

Freelancer, Delta thinks dramatically. Teammates, York mourns. “Did they see?”

South sneers. “No, of course fucking not. I’m not an idiot.”

No, Delta thinks, with a hint of something that tastes like fear on York’s tongue. “I know,” York says. His hand falls heavy into North’s hair but all he gets is a passive grunt so he rumples it worse than before.

South watches them for a second, doesn’t look like she cares. She’s very good at that. York wishes it had rubbed off on North more. “Caught Odinga on the way down,” she finally says, in order to keep up this ridiculous charade. A joke, York thinks. A means to an end, Delta supplies. Nobody laughs.

He nods along. “You pay the rent?”

“Yeah. He looked surprised.”

“He always looks surprised when you don’t shoot him on sight.”

“I take offense to that. At least he thanked me. Also says you’ve been messing with the electical panel again.”

York cannot deny that. But he’s bored, he needs to do something. He tells this to South.

“Get a job,” she retorts.

“I’m babysitting,” York argues. Guarding, Delta corrects.

South continues to be unimpressed. Her nails are bitten to the quick. She chips at the paint. “Sure.”

Technically, North is supposed to be babysitting him and Wash. Wash shakes and doesn’t look at them. York loses track of time. Delta remembers.

 _6:52,_ Delta reminds him.

“We’re fine,” he says. He doesn’t believe it. Delta might.

“North can barely remember to tie his own shoes,” South says. She is tired. She is bitter. York agrees with this sentiment.

“Babysitting,” he says. He is aware of the pistol sitting heavy on South’s thigh. She won’t shoot him. Delta lights their nerves on fire at the thought.

South stares at her brother, slouched in his lap and muttering soft Russian into his thigh. Delta acknowledges numbers. South looks sad. “Get him to bed,” she says. She goes back inside. Wash wakes from a nightmare two minutes later.

York wonders if dying might be easier than this. Delta does not provide a counterpoint.


	2. January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> South doesn't get paid enough to deal with this.  
> Actually, she doesn't really get paid for this at all.

Some days, South feels like she’s the only who ISN’T falling apart.

Days when York is still awake as she rises after midnight for work, sitting there in the dark and flicking his lighter on and off, searching for answers he cannot find. Days when North sleeps only to wake at her lightest touch, confused and scared, eyes too big and too bright and she wants to punch him but she doesn’t because it’s not his fault. Every day Wash looks at them like he’s not quite there, like everything around him is a joke elaborately created to mess with him.

She thinks about the way Wash had looked at her that night, like he wasn’t entirely sure who she was or how she might belong in his life. Dead inside, Theta had whispered once, through her brother’s lips. She still feels sick at the thought.

She tears another panel off the computer and tries not to be mad. It’s hard.

She wonders, on days like these, if this is for the best.

“You almost done over there?” a coworker calls across the room, like the work they’re doing isn’t completely illegal and should probably be kept quiet.

She wonders if hiding like this was really all there was left to do.

“Suck a dick,” she tells him.

He laughs, throws a wrench at her head. He doesn’t laugh when she catches it and sends it flying back.

That cheers her up a little. She kinda wishes she could throw a wrench at Wash. Kinda wishes he’d laugh and throw it back.

 

North rides out on the rail to pick her up that morning, wrinkled up shopping bags tucked under his arm. It’s warm today, sun already beating at the back of her shoulders as she trots up the steps. He wears a collared shirt that does just enough to cover the scars settled at the base of his neck. It’s hideously patterned, all bright orange and yellow. South makes a note to burn it. But the sleeves are short, and there is something very odd and disarming about how thin his arms look. She tries not to think about it.

Theta greets her with the beginning of a smile that her brother finishes. “Hi,” they say.

“I hate the market,” she tells him instead, though she turns 180 and heads back the way she came.

North falls in with her annoyingly fast. “Eunice says there’s a sale today.”

“She says that every day, North. She’s like nine hundred years old.”

“We’re out of food,” he confesses gently, out the side of his mouth like it needs to be kept a secret. Maybe it does, she doesn't fucking know.

She doesn’t swear, doesn’t complain. The wad of money she made that day is heavy in her pocket. “I’ll take care of it,” she tells him, because she knows he worries.

He gives her a smile that’s touched with affection and amusement. “I know.”

They walk down the city streets like they aren’t two refugees out of place, in a sea of people who keep their heads down and their feet moving. Always moving.  
South thinks she could get lost here, oh so easily. Just slip away and never come back. She’d never have to return to that sun-baked little complex with its concrete floor and broken ceiling fan. She’d never have to share a bed with her brother, who lashes out in his sleep, kicks and mutters and chips apart. She’d never wake with the sensation of falling and the accompanying cries of someone else’s nightmare.

She could leave, she marvels. She deserves to leave.

South looks at her brother out the corner of her eye, at his slow pace, normal loping gate reduced to a tired shuffle. The bags under his eyes are bruising, the weight on his shoulders crushing. She won't leave him behind.

Shadows from buildings above leave pockets of cold that raise goosebumps on her arms. It reminds her of a time long ago, on a planet faint and far away. She remembers chilled air and a warm jacket. She remembers fire and screaming.

“You’re thinking about home,” North states. He’s watching out the corner of his eye.

She keeps her head up and her shoulders stiff. She is stronger than this. “It’s not our home anymore,” she replies. It feels bitter.

“Neither is this,” he says breezily, and she hates him a little.

He squeezes her arm but doesn’t hold, touch gentle and brief like she might snap in half. She wonders at what could instill such fear in him. Knows the answer immediately. South resists the urge to take her brother’s hand, only reaches for a shirt sleeve when he doesn’t quite stop for a traffic light.

“Thank you,” he says, but his smile is Theta’s and she looks away.

“Sure.” 

They pass a newsstand with scrolling headlines announcing the fall of Project Freelancer. Both of them pretend not to notice. They’ve been gone two months.

“York thinks they’re still out there,” North says, but it’s soft, casual, like he doesn’t care.

“Even Carolina?” she spits, and feels worse for it.

He looks at her, then, a sad mockery of a smile. “Can you blame him?”

Yes, she thinks but doesn’t say.

 

The street dips down as they enter the marketplace, cold air running between buildings like a current.

“I hate the market,” South reminds her brother.

“I know,” he says, bit his eyes are bright in a way she hasn’t seen in months, a smile all his on his tired face. They’re all so tired. The excitement is something she’ll begrudge him.

The market is alive with noise, vendors calling out their wares, customers arguing and bargaining. Food mixes in the air with spices, and she always feels sick here. It’s a sea of color and people, all moving, all talking, a living breathing animal. Children and animals darting between the legs of disgruntled adults, playing tag and fetch and all in-between.

“Watch your pockets, South,” North says, voice low as he sidesteps a group of laughing kids.

She quietly moves her pay from pants to bra, and they step down into chaos.

The twins move through the crowd and it’s a familiar routine, seamless weaving and ducking, like nothing’s changed. North sneaks an extra sweet for Theta and South slips a tucked up blanket into a bag, South grabs an apple and North pretends to bump the stand.

“Sorry,” he says. Theta smiles. South doesn’t laugh. They move on.

She keeps him in her line of sight. She keeps THEM in her line of sight. It’s not like she has to, she knows. He’s the older brother, he’s always been the Older Brother.

She remembers the traffic light, a foot poised to step.

North moves on her left. She moves after him. Tells herself she isn’t worried.

 

The sale turns out to be a bust. South shoots North a look (told you so), but he rolls his eyes and elbows her in the ribs (shut up). It’s the closest to normal they’ve been in months, and South feels an ache in her chest, which she promptly ignores.

North carries their bags, only half paid for, and they wander back uptown for lunch while they check the goods. They don’t have much more than essentials, but South was able to trade a few busted data pads for some radio parts she knows York has been looking for.

“Nothing for Wash?” North asks, lips pressed together in disapproval.

She hates that. That inherent inclusivity, like they owe him anything. South opens her menu to block his stare. “He doesn’t even know who we are anymore, North.”

Lip press. Furrowing of brows so pale they might not exist. “He does, he just–”

Eye roll. Routine. “Doesn’t care about us, sorry, my bad.”

“He just needs more time,” North says, but he doesn’t argue.

They argue all the time, now, when North can actually hold a conversation without pausing to talk to Theta. They’ve always fought, she and North, but never so bad. Some days it’s a hushed whisper as they lie in bed. Sometimes it’s a nasty snarl and vicious language so loud the building may as well shake. North is under the impression they are doing the best they can. South does not agree. (South cannot argue, but that doesn’t mean she has to agree.)

She drops her menu dramatically, flops back in her chair. “I know, North. I know.”

The waitress brings them water glasses, and she crunches the ice loudly while he sips at it. Neither have more than glanced at the list of items.

“Theta thinks-” North starts. She bites her cheek. He notices, presses on. “Theta thinks it’d be nice if we all went out and did something together. Like a family.”

South can’t help it. She laughs. It’s rough and mean and she can’t help herself. “Oh, yes,” she chokes out. “Just the pathetic remains of Project Freelancer. Such a picturesque fucking family.”

North closes his eyes. “South-”

“They’re dead, North,” she spits, and ignores how much that hurts. “Carolina is dead. Connie is dead. Maine is gone, Wyoming is gone, and Tex is never coming BACK-”

“South!”

She doesn’t flinch when his glass comes down hard on the table, just stares at the way his hand shakes, knuckles ghostly white.

She flicks her eyes up, stares him down. He’s angry, she knows. Tired. Stressed. Mourning, probably. She finds it hard to care. “Don’t say he’s just a kid. Don’t even try. He’s not even a full AI.” They’re words meant to sting, to harm and bruise. She’ll regret them later. She says them all the same.

North WINCES, can’t look at her. “Sis-”

“He’s killed people, North.”

North stares down at his water. She thinks if he held on any tighter the glass might shatter. “Please stop.” It’s tiny, barely more than a murmur.

Repulsion settles in her stomach so fast she almost pukes. White hot fury burns the back of her throat. “Don’t,” she hisses. “Don’t.”

She watches Theta struggle not to say sorry, pulls her menu back up so she doesn’t have to see. _I want my brother back,_ she doesn’t say. Wouldn’t dare.

It’s not his fault, North might say, were his tongue not so tied.

But it is, they know. They all know.

 

They head back home in the middle of the afternoon, when the sun has climbed high in the sky and the sun leaves them soaked in sweat and desperate to get inside. North is quiet beside her, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Still angry. Too tired to fight. South can’t apologize. Won’t apologize. It’s fine.

York greets them from the floor, shirt stained with sweat and a screw driver in hand. He’s hunched by the control panel while Wash looks on from the couch. He doesn’t greet them. South tries not to care.

“Stop messing with the grid,” she tells York instead, dropping the radio parts in his lap. She doesn’t stick around to see his reaction. “I’m going to bed.”

She slams her door on the thin sounds of a conversation between four people and two bodies, and throws her brother’s pillow across the room.

Y'know.

Just for good measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think a lot about South's bitterness abt not getting an AI, and also how she really feels later, after seeing what happened to Wash and stuff. I only have like. Two or three chapters before I probably disappear for awhile, haha


	3. January (Again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> York is trying really, REALLY hard, it's not his fault they just can't see it.

His day starts early, mid-morning when North has yet to rise and Wash's meds keep him lulled in a restless sleep. Three hours this time, he notes, with a sense of near pride. Delta is less impressed, but equally relieved.

He takes a moment to stretch out the aches and pains from his ancient mattress, rubs at the back of his neck absently.

Wash's leg lashes out from under the blankets, and they wince in reminder. The first few weeks without an extra bed had been rough.

York's hand hovers over his shoulder, watches him kick while his eyelids flutter. _Only dreaming,_ Delta soothes him, and he withdraws his hand, ghosts across his arm, chilled from the cool night air.

Okay, he thinks. Okay.

Not much happens this early, when the sun has just begun its climb and the entire complex (partially abandoned, impossible to evacuate) maintains an air of hushed peace. York settles on the balcony, his favorite place, and swings his leg over the edge. Familiarity, routine. A single bird sings, down in the tree that sits over the baker's, twittering far too soon for the rest of the world.

York thinks Carolina would like this. This haphazard life they have, all cluttered together, too busy, too tired, living in their tiny little apartment, too full of misery to move on.

_"I very much doubt that last part,_ " Delta says.

"I was being dramatic," he admits, but not without a smile.

_"I have yet to see an instance in which you are not at least just a little bit dramatic,"_ D tells him, but it's followed by a warm flood of cheer at the back of his neck. It rolls over his shoulders and curls around him like a blanket. Something safe and private.

They stay on the balcony to watch the buildings around them come to life, people young and old, all rising to face the day. (Inside, his family sleeps on. He likes it that way. They deserve the rest.) There's something almost soothing about it, the normalcy with which these people live their lives, like the war has actually ended, like everything will still be okay.

The children are beginning their long march down the winding paths to the school when South appears from behind the daycare, just a speck of glowing blonde and an anger that radiates off her.

_"She looks mad,"_ Delta says unnecessarily.

"That's just her aura," York tells him affectionately, and shouts greeting when she comes within hearing distance.

He never gets tired of the way her head snaps around, though he could do without the automatic flinch towards a weapon she shouldn't carry.

She finds his face with only minor trouble, and when she does, flips him off. It should be less effective, given the range and the fact that York cannot actually SEE the finger, but it's the thought and action that count.

"Tell me you've at least been to bed," is the first thing she says when they trot down to meet her.

"Three hours, thank you very much," he sniffs, tries to hide a grin.

It doesn't work. It never does, with South. But instead of fighting, she just sighs. Her shoulders drop a fraction of an inch, and she says, "Okay." It's York's least favorite thing. Maybe. Aside from the phrase "how many fingers am i holding up?"

She looks tired, tied up hair falling out of the tiny tail on the back of her head, shaggy bangs hiding bruises under her eyes that match her brother's. He reaches out as if to push it from her face, immediately stops himself. That's not him, that isn't something he would do and he snatches his hand back like it's on fire.

South looks surprised, mouth open like she doesn't know what to do, what to say. But then it morphs into something sad, something bitter. It's a look she gives North. "It's fine," she says.

His blood is pounding in his ears and he feels sick, embarrassed and confused. Delta whirs right along with him, and he feels like the end result of a broken puzzle. "Sorry," he chokes out, but she shrugs.

"It's fine." She brushes by him to climb the stairs, changes the subject for his benefit. "We've got to find you a hobby or something. If you break the fan one more time, the neighbors are gonna start beating the roof with a broom."

His blood pounds in his ears. "They did that yesterday morning," he confesses.

She pauses to look at him over her shoulder, and it's such a motherly expression, a look that screams Carolina, that he has to drop his head.

"It was only for a minute," York says quickly, can't quite stop the quirk of his mouth.

She continues staring.

"North made me apologize?"

South snorts. "Now that, I believe."

"Hey!"

She laughs, genuinely laughs, and he feels just a tiny bit better.  
  
They eat breakfast together, a quiet affair. South is tired from work, spoons her oatmeal lazily.

"You should eat," he says.

She shrugs.

"Do you want my coffee?" York pushes it across the table, nudges at her hand.

When South looks at him, it's not quite appreciation, but there's something there that's almost a smile.

 

South shoves him awake sometime after midnight, shaking his shoulder violently.

He jolts upright, nerves on fire, senses struggling to keep up with the angry green hum in the back of his head. "It's fine," he says aloud. He doesn't remember what day it is.

_"Thursday, technically,"_ Delta reminds him. _"12:59 local time."_

York forgets to thank him, sitting upright slowly to see South standing over him with her arms crossed.

"You fell asleep on the floor," she tells him. He knew that.

"I knew that," he croaks, groggy. The fan had been his pillow.

"Shut up," and it comes out in a tender sigh, or maybe it's resigned. Affectionate, Delta tells him.

"Why?" he asks, and forgets to explain. Everything is blurry and confusing. South isn't wearing socks again, he notes.

She knows. "You're coming to work with me, asshole. C'mon."

When she pulls him up, everything tips sideways for three seconds before Delta catches him, keeps them upright. "Sorry," he says.

"It's fine," south tells him, but he knows she knows.

They ride the late train, mostly empty and completely silent. It teeters along sadly, flickering light panels and peeling propaganda signs. York sits with his side pressed completely against South, body folded as small as it can go. It's not even remotely cold, but she doesn't complain, puts her arm around his shoulders and looks straight ahead the entire ride.

He can't sit still, shakes his leg until Delta makes him stop, keeps looking at the ads (some are back from before the war, and York pauses to marvel at this). The scrolling LEDs announce each stop in two languages, pausing in between to remind the riders of the fall of an organization, to announce the most recent glassing and the release of the new Warthog model. York closes his eyes. Thinks, failure. Thinks, we could have made a difference.

-*-

York is thankful, most days, for the way South drags him out of the apartment.

Those nights when his fingers itch for something to do, when the fan still won't work and he can't sleep because there's everything to do and nothing to fix nothing he CAN fix and it's a puzzle he doesn't understand, a lock he doesn't have the key for. He tears it apart and puts it back together and it doesn't work and he thinks, another cup of coffee. Delta thinks, a missing part he doesn't have. He doesn't chastise York for staying awake. It's an anomaly they both overlook.

When South rises for work, looking both annoyed and borderline impressed, it's basically a godsend. He's already dressed, got both shoes tied (double-knotted, Delta insisted), and she hauls him out the door without a word beyond, "C'mon."

It's tough work, all encrypted files and equipment so out of date it's running decades behind, but it's calming, keeps their mind busy and keeps him from tearing himself to pieces.

He's not so knowledgeable on local slang, but the other workers are friendly and South translates in a flurry of swears and unkind words. She's always mad these days, does her work with a ferocious speed York both fears and admires. But she's the one who pulled him out of the dirt, who cleaned him up and got him work.

Delta does not trust her fury, her strength. He remembers her desperation for an AI, the way she petitioned for one of Carolina's, the sound of Tex's name plate snapping in half.

York remembers the look on her face when Wash broke down the second time. Remembers the clench of her jaw when North told her, "We're leaving."

South smacks him on the back, lets him know it's time to go.  
_"Six a.m., local time,"_ Delta reminds him.

York scrambles after her, juggling three holo locks and a screw he's been looking for. She's taking him to the market today, and totally not because he's been begging all week.  
South walks with her hands shoved in her pockets, loping strides that York nearly skips to keep up with.

He knows how she feels, but doesn't dare voice it, just catches the sleeve of the jacket she wears despite the heat.

We all have scars to hide, he thinks. Some more than others, Delta says.

She shoots a look over her shoulder that's mostly amused, mouth stuck between cracking a smile and telling him to fuck off. She does neither.

  
  
York likes the market, for all the reasons South hates it. Delta is not a fan. They could be spotted they could be seen things are too dangerous to play such games.

York doesn't mind. The market screams with life. It's the quietest his brain has felt in months.

South approaches the walkway like she's going into battle, face carefully blank and shoulders stiff.

"We don't have to," he tells her. He wants to. York would go charging in if Delta weren't grounding him. He wonders if he should be more concerned with that. Shakes it off.

"It's okay," she says, doesn't complain when he slips his hand into hers and tugs her across the cobblestone.

He sinks into anonymity beside South and breathes in a sea of people.

York bounces beside her as she slinks along, sidesteps grabs for his wallet and learns to flow through these people like water. He should be terrified, but South is always there, one step off from him, always on the right, always within arm's reach.

He spends about a third of his paycheck right there. Delta and South scoff. York laughs.

He knows they don't really understand, but he doesn't bring it up during lunch, either. Delta wants him to let go. South will just get angry again.

He doesn't want that.

There's only one thing York really wants, anymore.


	4. a moment, a century

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wash is having a rough time. It'll be okay.

Wash can’t quite remember his home, most days.

Hot summers and sweltering heat, so heavy in the air he could taste it on his tongue.

Breathing in the scent of wet pavement and canvas shoes soaked through the toes as he hunched against the rain.

Heavy metal footsteps on heavy metal hallways, fighting for fruit in the mess hall, the friendly squeeze of an elbow in the space between armor plating.

This place reminds him of-

Is it home if you’ve spent most of the years there running away?

Wash thinks he might have known the answer to that once.

 

He wakes up to heat that sticks his skin to the sheets and the smell of burnt coffee in the other room. He doesn’t move, not right away. Take a minute to pull himself together. Fails. Finally rolls off the bed and onto legs that shake with effort.

Wash stumbles out of his room, too asleep to be awake, too afraid to go back to sleep.

North sits alone in the kitchen, too tall back hunched over the too short table. His posture is more lax than Wash has ever seen, words spoken between him and Theta barely a quiet rasp. It almost feels like an intrusion, a private moment not meant for him. Light gleams from their fractured window, eerie with grime and mildew, casting shadows over North that turn his hair a sickly shade of green. It reminds Wash of the glow from a medical scanner. He pushes that down and locks it away.

It’s quiet, here, in this tiny apartment, late morning when everyone has gone off to work and the remaining few have started off to the market.

Their coffee machine is unplugged on the counter, its contents no longer steaming, murky and probably long gone cold. North’s cup sits untouched beside him, all attention on the paper before him. He’s wearing York’s shirt, an ugly shade of yellow that rides up too high on his back.

Wash tires to dig up any remnants of affection he might have left. Fails miserably. It should be the worst feeling in the world. Instead all he feels is tired and frustrated.

“Hey Wash.” North’s words cut through the quiet too suddenly, and he pretends not to flinch.

North gives a smile, small and sympathetic, and Wash refuses to meet his eyes. He regards him in a way that makes Wash feel irritatingly damaged, a tilt to his head that is usually reserved for York.

“Uh,” Wash says, because his brain is stupid.

North keeps smiling. “Take your time.” It should be sarcastic. Instead it just feels like pity.

It isn’t his fault, Wash knows, that his brain struggles for words. He knows they’ve been taken from him unfairly (in the form of spiraling numbers, screaming and a pistol that sings in the back of his head).

“Hi,” he says lamely, because it’s easier.

“Hi.” That’s tinged with affection, a smile just a bit wider.

North’s eyes are blue and Wash remembers a kitchen with blue curtains, lilacs on the table and ice tea on a hot day. He feels more frustration. Fury. Shuts his eyes and does not scream.

“I’m fine,” he says hastily, when he hears the the chair scrape the floor. “It’s fine.”

North lets out a sound that makes it clear he doesn’t agree, but doesn’t stand, keeps his distance.

Wash takes a moment that feels like a century, breathes heavy through his nose until the memory fades. It’s something he’s trying to work through on his own, layers he has to sift through and peel back until they’re raw. He doesn’t need help (they all need help).

It’s another minute until he’s ready to move, stepping into the kitchen and sinking low into a chair. When he looks at North, he sees concern, lips pressed together and brow knit tight. _I’m fine,_ he wants to say. _There’s nothing wrong with me._ North’s face, if possible, becomes more pinched, as though he’s said it out loud.

Wash thinks he should hate that. He feels ashamed.

“Where’s York?” he asks, desperate to change the subject, to take the focus off him. He tries not to pick at the peeling paint of the table, knows it’s a bad habit he picked up from South years ago.

That has North relax, just a bit, though maybe it’s disappointment. He tries not to count the rings beneath North’s eyes. “South dragged him off to work.” He hesitates, adds, “After you fell asleep.”

Wash wonders why he bothers. He isn’t a fool. He knows the flavor of barbiturates through the stain of citrus, the heaviness of his tongue each night before bed. Instead he asks, “Why?”

The smile North gives him is genuine, amused and bordering on a grin. Wash wishes it was familiar. “York has been messing with the electrical panel again. When the power went out yesterday? That was him.” An eye roll reminiscent of South. “But you remember what York is like when he’s bored.”

The words fall out of North’s mouth before he can catch them, but it’s fine, Wash is fine.

Wash remembers. Layer upon layer like a reel of film playing in his head. Remembers York picking locks, York breaking into the personnel office, York sneaking into recovery, York sneaking OUT of recovery. York stealing snacks from the mess, gel from his locker, socks and shoes and UNDERWEAR, of all things. York setting off alarms. York firing missiles at their own ship.

“Yes,” he says. “I remember.”

 

They get another hour of awkward silence before anyone else comes home. Wash spends most of that hour inside his own head, stares through the table so he won’t be haunted by the look on North’s face that he can’t understand.

North fills up the empty space with chatter, does his best not to let Theta slip through the cracks because then Wash will flinch, and if Wash flinches it’s all over and that, honestly, is not something either of them are prepared to deal with.

It’s hard, sometimes, to do this. Act like everything’s fine. Like they aren’t falling apart. Usually York is there, working on something (or breaking it), keeping busy with his hands and his mouth so Wash doesn’t have to think as much.

He realizes, then, that he might just miss York, and he grabs that. Holds it tight and refuses to let it go because this is his and his alone, a part of him that no one else can have.

Wash knows, in a stream of numbers and faded color, that he is a shadow of himself. A mockery of what he was.

Just like–

But don’t say her name, don’t ever say her name don’t even think it don’t breathe it don’t let it live in your skin until it’s all you have left

t’s a thought kept for nightfall, his first word gasped in the morning, a name that festers below his skin that he can’t quite reach with his fingertips. She’s every bad dream he’s ever had, every good emotion that sits in his chest.

She’s everything to him and she means NOTHING.

Wash is working his way back to himself, but it’s a slow, uphill process, haunted by thoughts that aren’t quite his and don’t say goodbye, I hate goodbyes, the ghost of a ghost, someone he loves but has never known.

By the time York and South come back, North has lapsed into silence, and they’re still sat awkwardly at the kitchen table. York’s got a smile a mile wide, and is holding a box of probably illegal objects. (Wash is not entirely sure what South does, but he figures “illegal” is a pretty good bet, with the kind of money she’s raking in.)

“What’s that?” North asks, with a smile too tired but just patient enough.

“Locks!” York says. There’s a manic look in his eyes, sleeplessness and delight. He bounces up and down on his toes, talks too fast and grins too hard. York is all heightened emotion, a wire pulled too tight, jittery in the worst kind of way.

Wash wishes he could feel the deep kind of concern painted across North’s face, instead of mutilated intrigue at the idea of what might happen were that wire to snap.

“How much coffee did you give him, Christ,” North mutters, standing up and turning York around by the shoulders. “I think you should go to bed.”

“What? Man, nah. Nah, man. Everything is just. Super bright and really slow.”

“South.”

“He’s fine?”

“South!”

Wash slips out of the room while they argue. It feels like an intrusion, something he’s not allowed to see.

The sun burns hot today, the air swampy and heavy on his tongue.

Wash remembers hot nights and sweat-stained sheets, the song of cicadas and the endless call of grackles.

He remembers summer rain and endless forests of green, thunderstorms and lightning, wading in the river and feeling silt between his toes.

Memories over lap and replay and Wash closes his eyes and wills himself to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh season 6 is my favorite, and i have a lot of headcanons about wash's ability to hold grudges yet somehow barely keep track of which teammate has an AI. what a big dummy. anyway, i like the idea that while he does mostly remember them, sometimes he gets confused, and that a big part of him was wrecked when epsilon came in. like a wrecking ball?


	5. February 22nd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's a lot of funny jokes you can make about freelancers and assigning them birthdays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is the first time i've written in two years so it might be a little uhhhh. stilted? different? i'm working on it i swear. chapters are likely to be pretty short, because i'm unfortunately one of Those people

Nightmares are not foreign to him. The things they've done -- what they've seen, it'll always haunt them, always be part of a long list of mistakes North doesn't know how to correct.

The thoughts plague his waking hours as he and Theta integrate further, simulations layered on top of each other. What he could have done differently, what it'd be like if they could go back and change something.

But there is no such thing as magic, and they are not a god. North cannot turn back time. He can't stop Wash's night terrors or York's migraines, or the frigid way South looks at him when they fight. So he wakes up and he pushes and he fights and he keeps on trying.

 

North jolts awake chasing a memory that doesn't belong to him and flounders for his gun before he's stopped by a steady hand on his shoulder, another dragging him away from the bedside table.

"Hey, hey. It's fine, North, it's just me." Her voice is gruff with sleep, her nails sharp on his wrist. Familiarity, comfort.

"South," they say, and she inhales sharply through her nose, eases back as he sits up and rubs his eyes. She doesn't let go of his wrist. Sun filters through the curtains, lighting her hair in shades of purple and grey. Day, then. "Time is it," he croaks, throat gummed up. He should really stop smoking. He should stop doing a lot of things.

South watches him a second longer, eyes flicking across his face like she's checking for something. She must find it, because she leans away towards her side of the bed, and they both mourn the loss of her nails on their skin. "Quarter to seven," she says after a second. North groans. He slept in. She only laughs when he rolls out of bed and on to the floor, doesn't check until he's been lying face down for two minutes. "What are you doing?"

"Promised I'd help York bake a cake," he says into the concrete, already warming up and ruining his goddamn life. He misses snow, pushes back immediately against Theta's memory of Sidewinder, crashing ship and broken visor, frozen hands and busted pelicans. He had almost dislocated his shoulder during the fall, they remember.

"North," South barks, and he does not flinch, scrapes himself off the floor. Lost in thought again. Typical.

"Sorry." The right amount of sheepish, a sliver of a grin in weak summer light.

She sighs through her nose, an ugly scowl marring her face where she leans over the mattress to look at him. He thinks about calling her pretty, decides against it.

Theta rolls back over the last minute and a half in the blink of an eye, but there's only one question North has to answer, and he does, pulling on his shirt as he goes. "It's Wash's birthday."

 

York is already there and waiting for him when they sneak into the kitchen. The grin on his face tells North he hasn't slept yet, has probably been pacing again. They're going to get another complaint from the neighbors.

"York." South does not wear her disappointment like other people. She is curling fists instead of wagging fingers. Grit teeth and squared shoulders, like she's got something to prove. Her arms fold across her chest and she's a soldier again, and York's sleeplessness is the only thing standing between her and victory. North follows the lines of her shoulders beneath her tank top and thinks they need to eat more meat. "We get one day off and you spend it standing in the kitchen all night?"

_He hasn't been standing there all night,_ Theta tells him, and North agrees. Doesn't mention HE gets up with South every day of the week except Monday, even when he'd rather sleep. She knows, anyway.

"I haven't been standing here all night," York protests, like that's the problem.

_Told you,_ Theta says.

"I napped on the couch for like half an hour."

"And I'm sure you're well-rested," North snorts, nudging South towards the table with the back of his hand against hers. It'll be okay, we can handle it together.

"As rested as I can be," York says cheerfully. He offers a mug of coffee (way too strong, scalding hot) to South, and she takes it with a mild look of disapproval, batting his hands away when he tries to give her cream. His smile only falters for a moment.

A moment is all Theta needs.

The bend of York's spine spells exhaustion, the glaze of his eyes that irrepressible sadness, the hole in his heart that bruises all the way down. The faint  tremble of his hands tell him it's his second pot of coffee, and they're grateful it's not his third. He should go to bed. North should drag him back to bed, tell him it's okay, that no cake is worth this much trouble.

But there is an ache of loneliness in his chest that is not his own, and Theta's selfish desire to have his brother just a little longer prevents North from saying the words.

"Hey," he says instead, bumping their hips together as he joins York at the counter, "doing okay?" It's a loaded question.

"I'll take nap again later," York promises, returning the gesture. Delta adds, unhelpfully, "Maybe." North gives him a reproachful look that makes both of them go sheepish.

Theta thinks they're funny. He thinks that York has kind eyes, likes the way his heavy brow lifts when he smiles, and the tilt of his head when he doesn't entirely understand something. It reminds Theta of their friends, of Project Freelancer. Wash eating inside his helmet, Carolina quirking a brow during a CQC match, the way Tex's hair fell over her shoulder when her head tipped to the side-

North struggles with the anxiety that starts building in his chest until he can barely breathe.

"Let's just get started," he says, desperately, and grabs the sugar off the top shelf because he knows that he's the only one who can reach it.

  
It takes them the better part of three hours to slap a cake together. Their kitchen is tiny, limited counter space and maybe seven feet across; it definitely wasn't made for three full grown adults and their too big dining table.

York and North argue the entire time, about the appropriate amount of sugar, how much flour they REALLY need (Delta wins that one), who gets to lick the spoon (South), and which bowl is closest to a cake shape (they settle on an unused glass mixing bowl). They are batting hands and jostled shoulders and no York that's too much cocoa, do you know how much that cost us last time, quite trying to lick the bowl. South relishes in it, sits at the table and provokes them until North turns on her to bicker and York uses the opportunity to shake more powdered sugar into the frosting bowl. North nearly elbows his other eye out.

What they end up with is a close approximation of a cake, odd shaped with melted frosting (he couldn't find anyone who sold food dye - he wanted yellow) and maybe a little burnt underneath.

South stares at it, their first critic, and North watches the way she chews on her tongue, how the dimple in her left cheek starts to form as she can't quite stop herself from laughing at them. "It's," she chokes, half a gasp, "great. It's great."

"Aw, fuck off, South, it looks fine!" North thinks York is being a little too defensive given that HE'S the one who did most of the work. It's hard to be offended when there's chocolate smeared across his cheek, though, flour caked to the front of his shirt and stuck in his nail beds. He puts his hands on his hips and looks like a scorned housewife. North kind of loves it.

South looks at him, gives an eyebrow raise and the quirk of her lips. He shrugs, turns his head to the side so York can't see him grin. "I'm sure he'll like it just fine."

"I do not think he is going to get much of a choice," Delta says through York's mouth, and South nearly chokes on her coffee trying not to lose it.

It's the happiest North remembers being in maybe a year, shushes Theta's worry and guilt. It's okay, it's not his fault. Life isn't perfect. This is okay. This is enough.

 

Wash sleeps til noon on a good day (and close to not at all on a bad one), and the twins are borderline losing it by eleven-thirty.

North has never known how to sit still, always shifting, bouncing his leg and tapping his fingers and dancing from foot to foot. South is the same way, and he wonders, often, how they ever made it through basic.

"This is stupid," South says, when they've run out of things to say and anything else will spark an argument. She chips at the old wood of the table with bitten down nails, staring at the cake like she might push it of the edge.

"It won't be too much longer," North says. "He can't sleep all day." He doesn't realize he's mirroring her until York takes his hand away from the table, giving it a squeeze before dropping it. It takes all North has not to ask for it back. He offers up a pinched, grateful smile instead.

York returns it with a crooked grin, other arm stretching to slide the cake just out of South's reach. She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and rolling her eyes.  
North thinks it's funny, how he's adjusted to this role. York is in no position to be taking care of anyone. That doesn't stop him from trying. Carolina used to do these things, he remembers. Herd and adjust and pick at all of them until they were Just So, her perfect little pack of miscreants.

North misses her more than he will ever freely admit.

There's a crash in the other room, small, probably nothing expensive. All three of them twitch for weapons they don't have, a parody of themselves in triplicate.

"Just the alarm clock," York, or possibly Delta, says after a moment. He sounds unsure. North is not going to argue. He's tired.

South gives him another "this is a super bad idea, we should bail" look, the fifth one this hour, before Wash stumbles out into the living area, wearing one of her shirts and no pants.

"Good morning," North calls, scraping his chair across the floor just enough to hide a snicker.

York gives no such courtesy, lets out what can only be called a guffaw. "Jesus," he mutters, covers his own mouth.

Wash freezes, hand still outstretched towards the door. Sleepwalking again, then. They're going to need a heavier sedative. North can almost see the way he comes back to himself, spine straightening out and his shoulders, heavy with unspoken nightmares, slumping just enough to be human. It takes a minute for him to speak, but it always does, these days. "Hey."

North smiles. Theta curls it up on the left just enough to look genuine. "Hey yourself. Sleep well last night?"

Wash does this thing he thinks no one else can see, where he presses his fingers into his palms and pops them quietly, one by one. He only does it when he's thinking, or nervous. It's a simple gesture, but not a habit he had before Epsilon. The thought is chilling. "It was uneventful," is what he eventually settles on.

There's less than ten feet between them, but Wash looks at them like it stretches for miles.

"Hey Wash," York calls, the grin in his voice just a few degrees too puckish for his own good. Never one for surprises or subtly, he shoves the cake into the middle of the table. "Happy birthday, buddy."

There is a pause.

There is a long, long pause where Wash stares at York, then at the rounded lump pretending to be a cake, then back again. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Stares at the cake.  
Theta is a flutter of nerves at the base of North's skull, and he has to wipe his palms on his pants as they start to sweat. We're fine, it's okay, it'll be alright (it doesn't feel alright).

"Oh," Wash says, voice civil, maybe a little hysterical. "I forgot."

South scoffs softly, looks away. North kicks her under the table. "Заткнись." She kicks back twice as hard. He bites back a hiss, turns round in his chair to look at Wash. "It's not much, but we're pretty sure it tastes like a cake."

"Pretty sure," he repeats. He walks to the kitchen like he's crossing a mine field. "You didn't check first?"

"South licked the spoon," York whispers, like it's a secret, wiggling his brows. He yelps and North laughs; he's pretty sure South just kicked him, too.

"Okay," Wash says, gingerly taking a seat between the twins. The look on his face is the new standard mix of masked repulsion and confusion, most of it aimed at the cake. York slides him a fork. He takes it and switches hands from right to left immediately. It's nice, familiar. At least some things never change.

"Do you like it?" North asks, when it's been almost five minutes and all Wash has done is stare. It's almost funny, could almost be normal, but Theta's anxious, worried they fucked up somehow.

It's easy to fuck up with Wash, these days.

They watch as he chews on his words for a moment, glancing between the three of them in quick succession. York's grin is desperate and exhausted. South looks like she's planning an escape route. Wash settles on, "It's an interesting shape."

That's fair. North laughs. Covers his face with his hands. He's so tired. Theta is an ache in his chest. South was right. This was a bad idea. Wash is still recovering, he doesn't really like much of anything, they didn't even ask if he wanted a cake. It was a stupid plan.

The clock on the wall finally pings noon, an old analog thing York had wanted to keep. He probably could have gone down to the river today and avoided all of this, kind of wishes he hadn't bothered. It was a really stupid plan.

York opens his mouth to speak, maybe to make things worse, but Wash beats him to it.

"What flavor is it, uh. Supposed to be." He's got one hand clamped to the table like it's grounding him, the other holding his fork in a death grip. (North has some concerns about whether or not giving it to him was a good idea. Theta still trusts Wash, lights up his ANS at the thought.)  
"Chocolate, but you don't have to--"  he starts, struggling to speak as his heart rate rises of its own volition. _Theta, please._

_"Sorry."_ Guilt, a little more room to breathe.

"It was my idea," York blurts. "But North did most of the work."

"That's funny, considering you were just bragging about how it looks fine," South drawls. She's doing that thing where she shuts down whenever Wash is in a room. North thinks part of her is still irrationally angry at him. He really doesn't want to talk to her about it, because it always ends in an argument and him sleeping on the floor. 

"It doesn't matter who made it," North says, mostly because the cake is super ugly and Wash is looking at him like maybe this is all his fault after all. He moves to squeeze his shoulder, aborts the motion. Gives a strained smile. "It's your birthday, Wash. We're just glad you're here."

"That might be overselling--" York starts, and grunts when North kicks him in the knee, full force.

Wash doesn't really pay him any mind. He probably doesn't care. He stares at North. Hard. Thick eyebrows furrowed, head tilted ever so slightly. His eyes are almost grey in the fluorescent light, and North wonders how he never noticed. "Why?" Wash asks, and it throws him for a loop.

He doesn't know how to answer that. It was selfish, and North knows that. Everything is fucked up, none of them are coping well, and he just wanted. He just wanted.

He really misses Carolina.

It takes him a moment to clear his throat, another answer. York and South are both staring at him now, waiting. He'll get shit for this later. "Because we're friends."

This is apparently not the answer he was expecting, because Wash goes red to the roots, looks away with the jerk of his head. Theta sees bits and pieces of Epsilon in the way he hesitates to speak, and North almost vomits at the thought.

"Thank you," Wash finally says, when they think he's going to bolt. He ducks his head, sticks his fork in the cake. "For remembering. Thank you."

And that's.

That's almost something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for coming 2 my ted talk xo


	6. March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> South and York take a train. This is actually a train fan-based fanfiction. That's the secret I've been hiding from all of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guys!! I promise I'm still alive, I've just been super busy and didn't have the motivation to finish this chapter before! But I'm gonna try harder from now on!!

South thinks that if she had to pick a place to hide, she probably would have picked anywhere else but here. They're down the line from the world's first tether city, the UNSC makes frequent shipments through the docks, and she's seen more people than she's comfortable with wandering around in full military grade armor. It's hot as hell, humid as fuck, and they can't get good work because they're wanted criminals. If Tex put any effort into planning their hideout at all, it doesn't show.  
She's only a little bitter.

"She couldn't have picked somewhere colder?" she mutters, pulling on her jacket. Tattoos were a mistake. Identifying marks were a mistake.

"What?"

Oh, fuck. York. She almost forgot about him again. "Nothing. Shut up." She hauls him up off the floor, doesn't think about how it's becoming just a little bit harder than it used to be. "Pack it up, we're leaving early today. There's something I need to do." Need is a little strong. York doesn't know that.

"Where're we going?" He skips a step to keep up with her, circling around onto her left side. Of course. She should have been paying more attention.

She considers an apology, but York hates that, and she's not a huge fan of them, anyways. "Let's call it a day trip."

Hesitation, a second to consult.

"North isn't going to like that," he says.

"North can go fuck himself." She checks her watch. Picks up the pace. "We've got about ten minutes."

"You know, weird and cryptic doesn't really look good on you."

"And morose asshole doesn't really work for you."

He coughs out a laugh, rubs the back of his neck. "Damn. Harsh."

"Tough shit. Hurry the fuck up." She hooks her hand into his elbow and drags him after her, long strides like when she was a kid, late for school, crossing a field of frosted pumice as fast as they could.

South wishes, again, for a world half as hot as this one.

 

York stares at the maglev train and then to South, heading towards the stairs while he trails after. "This seems like a bad idea."

"York," she says, and it's all the exasperation she holds back, every angry moment she's ever had. She opens her mouth to speak. To tell him to fuck off. To go home, then, if he wants to be a boring sadsack.

But that rage is extinguished when she sees his face. The uncertainty and curiosity warring there is almost funny. His hands twist in the green of his shirt (Carolina's favorite color was green), and he rocks back on his heels nervously. It's something she hasn't seen in months: that spark, the insatiable desire to know, a little piece of York left from before the crash.

She changes her mind. She is not Carolina, but neither is he, so she stands on the bottom step, puts her hands on her hips, and gives him her best tough guy face. Meant to rile, to challenge him. "What, you gonna let me go by myself?"

His mouth curls down while hers twists up. Smug, confident. It's a game she plays well.

"You can always go home now, and tell North you don't know where I am." That's a little mean. North would be furious, and York would get the unfair brunt of that anger. She wonders if there's a way for Delta to record that. "Or," and maybe her voice is too syrupy to be genuine, maybe she's always been like this, "you could come with me, and get out of the house for a change."

He hesitates again, an eye flick to his right, something she hasn't seen him do since the MOI. It hurts, just a little. If he realizes he did it, he doesn't give it away.

"I'll buy you a toy," she offers, a little maliciously.

York pulls a face at that. "I'm not a kid."

"Short enough to be one, though."

"We're the same height!"

"Yeah," she says, and she's got a grin like a crocodile, turns away to climb up to the platform, "but I'm a GIRL."

If he frowns at her, or has anything to say, she doesn't see it, and she only checks behind to see if he's following when she reaches the top.  
  


York folds against her on the tram like he's done a hundred times, pressed too close and not close enough. It reminds her of so many pelican rides, when they were too tired to keep themselves upright, slumped against the harness, against one another, and sometimes, upon landing, the floor.

He is not her best friend, he never has been, but she couldn't have left him there on the platform. They both know that.

"Do you think it's weird that the seasons are backwards?"

She glances over to see him studying an ad on the far side of the wall. She didn't even know they were still producing that magazine. "What?" she says, because it's a stupid question, but he'll keep talking even if she doesn't answer.

"Like, it's March right? But it's summer here. North hates it, I figured you would, too."

South doesn't point out that lumping them together is part of what helped them fall apart in the first place. Instead she shrugs. "I don't really have a point of reference for that."

"Yeah," he sighs. "Me neither. Hey, did I ever tell you about the time--"

"You learned how to ride a bike on Mars, yes." She groans, rolls her eyes. "Yes, York, only a hundred fucking times."

"Well, prepare for time one hundred and one."

She doesn't stop him. It'd be easy, really. She could jostle him until he fell out of the seat, or elbow him hard in the gut. Maybe stick her finger up his nose. But the ride is long, anyway, and it's better to get this out of the way now than deal with it later.

 

It's just past noon by the time the train finally crawls to a halt, and York has been snoring for the better part of an hour.

South almost hates to wake him; they all get such little sleep as is. But they came all this way, and he has the whole ride home to saw through those logs. She is at least forty percent sure that is the correct turn of phrase.

"Up," she hisses, jostling her shoulder. It feels wet. She is so totally not thinking about it. "York, wake the fuck up."

He jolts awake and there's a moment where she's not sure he even recognizes her. Like she's someone else. Like he thought she'd be. Like he wishes she was. Then his eyes focus and her nerves are on fire, the way he stares, the shape of his mouth. There is distaste there, like she is a bitter pill to swallow.

"South," he says, clipped precision that makes her guts churn.

"Fuck you," she says, and Delta cringes back and away.

York rubs his eyes and wipes off the side of his mouth. She watches him put the pieces together in a beautiful, silent disaster. Staring at his wet hand. Chin jerking towards her shoulder, brows raising in what could be comical terror if she let it escalate.

"You're a sloppy bitch, you know that, York?" she says instead, shoving him away as she climbs to her feet. She finds this is a tactic helpful in almost any situation. Definitely got her through most of life, pushing people away. A hero's tactic.

North wouldn't think that's funny, she knows.

He's not here.

Lucky for her, York's always willing to be somebody's punching bag, and he hops up after her like nothing happened. "So where are we?"

"Why don't you take a second and look around, genius?" She climbs down off the platform and into the heat and thinks, fuck, I should have worn sunscreen.

It's hotter here. Wetter. Like a blanket's been draped over her shoulders and then sunk into her skin, insulating her and surrounding on all sides.

It's horribly claustrophobic.

"Jesus," York mutters, but he lumbers beside her, both of them squinting in the sun, shirts already sticking to their backs by the time they get into the station itself.

She buys two pairs of sunglasses because she can, today, and because York's pathetic attempt to navigate with his eyes half-closed is the dumbest thing she's ever seen. She puts them on his face while he does an impression of someone who's eaten a particularly sour lemon. He doesn't sit still for it. "Stop." He jerks. "York, hold still or I'll poke out your other damn eye."

He brings up a hand like he's going to help, stops. His hand drops back down, limp. Noodly, he'd probably say, in another life. "Sorry," is what York settles on, after a beat.

She doesn't say it's okay, even though it is. It's not really on brand for her, and these days she feels more and more like she's filling a part she was never meant to play.

 

"I've never been here before," York says, skipping a step to keep up with her.

It's kind of pathetic that he can't keep up, she thinks. Her stride is - always has been - deliberate, fast. She's got places to go, and she gets there. Maybe her legs are just longer.

York's always been more of an ambler. He clarifies, "To Old Mombasa. It's like looking at an old history book, don't you think?"

He's not wrong. Its age shows, in the slump of the buildings, how they're crammed together in too close a space, how the paint chips and the bricks crumble. Power and clotheslines weave intricate patterns over each other, almost indiscernible. The roads that are dirt are packed so hard they almost shine, and roots cleave the sidewalks that exist in two. It's beautiful, in a way. Wild, with that heaviness in the air, the way it leaves salt on the tongue.

It also smells. Most dense Earth cities do, South finds, but she's used to it now, breathes smoke and dust like oxygen.

She doesn't complain. There's no point. "We came through here on our way in," she tells him.

"Oh," he says, shying away from her.

She doesn't say anything else. It's not like they got a very good view, running for their lives.

"I didn't remember that," he admits after a minute.

"It's not important," she says, because it's not.

 

They head up the main road in relative peace after that. York is on edge, she can tell. His hands clench and unclench at his sides. Fingers flex. Drum a pattern. Longing for a weapon, something familiar to do with his hands. Christ, they should get him a Rubik's cube.

Delta would probably spoil that, too.

A muscle jumps in his jaw and she considers grabbing his hand. Anything to make him stop. But he's not North, and she's not --

Well.

She's South, anyway.

She shouldn't feel guilty for not being someone else. So she doesn't.

 

South buys coffee and walks them to the pier. Used-to-be pier. Now it's nothing but a high wall and an empty road.

Fine with her. Safer that way.

Across the water, New Mombasa glitters like glass, floating over the sea. Buildings as big as anything, looped round and round by tall highways. The tether is a beacon, climbing high and disappearing into the clouds. It probably wouldn't be that hard to destroy, South thinks. If they didn't gun her down first.

She thinks of the orbital canon. How North said the ground shook so hard the road cracked.

She wouldn't know. She wasn't there.

"It's bigger than I thought it would be," York offers. He's been quiet, clutching his coffee with both hands like it isn't probably burning the shit out of them.

"That's what she said," comes out before she can stop it, and they snicker in unison.

A pause.

He inhales. She braces herself.

"South --"

And all the muscles in her body tense. She grabs the railing, curls her free hand around it for support.

"Why did you want to come here?" York asks, watching her.

York's got one of those faces that makes it hard to lie to him, all open expression and raised eyebrows, false cheerfulness blended with exhaustion none of them can quite hide.

Inquisitive, North would say.

It feels pretty passive-aggressive to her.

_You don't owe him anything,_ she reminds herself. _It's none of his business._

"I was bored," South says. Shrugs. "Thought we could use a change in scenery."

He stares and she tries desperately not to fidget. Guilt. The repulsion of Delta watching her through his eyes. Envy. She's trying to be better. Sometimes, he reminds her that she's not.

She half-expects him to reprimand her. North would. Carolina would. They've never been best friends, her and York.

"Do you ever think about her?" It should be out of left field. It's not.

"Carolina?" she asks, just be to cruel.

He acts like he didn't hear her, keeps on staring. She watches his hands. Fingers tapping against the paper cup in a sequence she can't follow. There's a dull pang of loneliness she has spent weeks shutting out.

She pushes it down.

"She betrayed us," South says, and it's bitterness on the back of her tongue, bile in her throat.

"That doesn't mean anything, anymore," he says, and she knows he's right.

Neither of them say her name.

"She was--" Opens her mouth, closes it. York won't judge her. Probably. "She was my best friend."

"I thought I was your best friend," he jokes.

"No, you're my best WORST friend."

"I thought that was Wash."

"No, Wash was YOUR best worst friend."

"I don't think he's anyone's anything anymore," York says, and it's a touch too cheerful to be sincere. After a beat, he speaks again. "Do you really think I'm the worst?"

"North and I had lengthy discussions about it," she says, struggling to mask a smile.

"What! I'm the best! Remember when I made the peanut butter sandwiches?"

"That you stole from Wyoming's locker?"

"He almost killed me," he sighs wistfully.

"Wish he would've finished the job," she says, plucking the coffee from between his fingers. "Then I wouldn't have to work so much."

"Hey!"

South muffles a laugh into his cup, elbows him away when he reaches for it. "What are you doing, York?" she drawls. "Get your own coffee."

"You are literally the worst friend," York says, but he's smiling now, swiping half-heartedly for his cup.

"I am the worst friend," she monotones. "It is me."

They laugh together.

When they walk back towards the station, South stops to buy another coffee, and this time, she hands them both to York.

York grins. "Getting soft, South."

"The only thing getting soft around here is your stomach." She illustrates her point with the hard poke of a finger into his midsection that makes him squawk like a bird in dismay. It is, hands down, the best part of her day.

 

"Did we really come all this way to drink shitty coffee?" York asks on the train ride home. He's pressed against her again, one cup already discarded, eyes focused and brows expectant.

South considers how she should answer that. It's none of his business. It's her business. "I just..." She falters. South doesn't falter. Except when she does. "I just need to get out sometimes, York."

He regards her carefully. "But you brought me."

That startles a laugh out of her. It sounds hollow to her ears. "Yeah, well. Maybe I like having you around."

"For comedic relief," Delta suggests, and she punches him in the arm.

"Because I trust you, idiot. Or should it be idiots?"

York doesn't answer, tips his head and gives a thin smile. "More than North?"

The look she gives him is scathing. "Don't push your luck."

 

The apartment is quiet by the time they get back, and Wash, sitting on the couch, gives them a Look she can't decipher before slinking off to his room.

South glances at York and Delta, but he just shrugs and skulks off to the kitchen.

She sighs, rolls her eyes. She lives with a bunch of cowards.

When she opens the door, North is lying on the floor. Fear and anxiety flare up inside her like white hot metal against the skin, like the tip of a needler embedded in her spine.  
She steels against that, walks forward, and kicks him in the side. "North."

"You're late," he says softly, face still pressed into the concrete.

"Yeah, I know." She comes around the other side, sits on the edge of the bed. "Had places to be."

He hums, stays where he is.

"Are you having a panic attack?" She already knows the answer.

"Not anymore," he sighs, turns his head to the side so she can see one eye glaring at her, accusatory, disappointed. Ugh, he's so much like their fucking grandma sometimes.

"You look like Baba," she tells him anyway.

He smacks at her, she kicks him again, and it's almost like an apology. Almost.

**Author's Note:**

> the first few chapters are almost 3 years old with some edits, please work with me here haha


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